


Then, Now

by adoctoraday



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Classical Music, Credence Barebone Crying During Sex, Credence Barebone Gets a Hug, Credence Barebone Heals, Credence Barebone Needs a Hug, Cutting, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Fluff, First Time Blow Jobs, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Gellert Grindelwald Being an Asshole, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Manipulative Gellert Grindelwald, Original Percival Graves Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Original Percival Graves Needs a Hug, Original Percival Graves is a Softie, Panic Attacks, Percival Graves shushing during sex, Piano, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self-Harm, Shell Shock, Smut, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, credence finds out who his family is, credence plays the piano
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2019-10-28 09:53:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17785199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adoctoraday/pseuds/adoctoraday
Summary: Percy used to think that time heals all wounds, that even the most grevious injuries could be healed and the world made right. But that was then, when he was young and naive and had no idea the ugliness the world could hold.Now, he knows better.He’s seen men blown to bits in the war, watched a genocidal mad man kill and maim and destroy, and he knows, there’s very little good left in this world.Credence Barebone is not just good, he’s pure, unadulterated light, shining forth into the dark.Credence had known very little kindness in his life, until he met Percival Graves. Then he had his heart shattered.Now, he has to learn to heal again.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Ok folks, please heed the tags! There’s some cutting/self harm in this story and I don’t want to throw anyone off by not mentioning it! If you think anything else should be tagged that I’ve missed, let me know! 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this story, and please, comment!! 
> 
> Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/user/h8zhsilbhzlfphod5alsli88e/playlist/537WwDIRABDNi1ZkdT3jS6?si=ckE1IJrNTLuJaEU_xln2Ew

**_Now_ **

Credence is warm, secure and against all odds,  _ happy.  _ It’s a feeling he’s gotten familiar with since he started living with Mr. Graves two months ago; each day a blessing that he thanks God for every morning in his prayers. The book he’s reading on wandless magic is propped against his knees where he sits in Mr. Graves’ usual seat before the fireplace, content for the moment. 

Mr. Graves has given him so much since they escaped from Nurmengard together; food, a place to sleep and live, security, affection, and quite literally the clothes off his back. 

He fingers the collar of the shirt that had once been Mr. Graves’, cut down with magic to fit his much slimmer form, and smiles faintly. If he tucks his nose into the fabric he can almost smell the last vestiges of the cologne the older man wears, and he’s not exactly  _ happy,  _ no, because the scent makes his heart throb with want and ache with loneliness. 

Mr. Graves has been gone for three days, hunting the followers of Grindelwald, and though Credence misses him terribly, he knows that finding Grindelwald and his followers before they instigate a full out war between wizards and no-maj’s is far more important than Credence’s disappointment at his absence. 

He owes so very much to Mr. Graves, his very life, in fact, and though he knows there’s no way he can ever repay the man, he’s determined to try. He’s kept busy in Mr. Graves’ absence, but it’s not enough to keep his mind running over the many varied ways that Mr. Graves could be hurt or killed. He’s already cleaned the house from top to bottom, done all the laundry for both of them, and in the kitchen there’s dough proofing for a fresh loaf of bread. 

His stomach has been knotted with anxiety since the day Mr. Graves had left, his fingers trailing over Credence’s cheek with a sad smile and a reassurance that he’d be back soon. The soft words and gentle touch had done little to keep the anxiety and fear at bay; the darkness inside him that has little to do with the obscurus impossible to keep buried for long. 

His pulse skips unevenly at the chaos of the dark images staining his mind, unease making his stomach churn unpleasantly. Fine tremors run over his hands, fingers trembling where they’re pressed into the leather binding of the book in his lap. 

The mission is dangerous, and more than he might miss Mr. Graves, he  _ fears  _ for him. Credence spent nearly four months as a  _ guest _ of Grindelwald's and had only escaped when he had realized that Mr. Graves wasn’t the man Grindelwald had pretended to be. He has seen firsthand how very dangerous Grindelwald is, how violent and murderous he can be when pushed--though once his true nature had been revealed, Credence realized that there was very little  _ pushing _ needed for the man to resort to violence. 

Before Grindelwald had captured Mr. Graves and impersonated him, Credence had met Mr. Graves, the  _ real _ Graves who had taken him to lunch, healed his hands, given him hugs when he was breaking down, had  _ cared _ when the imposter only cared about finding the obscurus and using it as a weapon. 

It had taken him a shamefully long time to realize that Grindelwald had been manipulating him, and once more, a flush of anger rose to his pale cheeks. Glaring at the fire, he tries to breath through the anger and shame and hurt that makes it feel like the obscurus is back, crushing him slowly from the inside out. 

Black spots swim in his vision and as his heart pounds, he can hear how loud his breathing is, so loud it sounds like the rush of the ocean, dragging him down, down, down.

* * *

 

**_Then_ **

The halls of Nurmengard are damp and cold, and no matter how many layers Credence wears, he’s still cold. He’s not sure if it’s the fact that it’s winter, or if it’s the very essence of the castle that permeates his bones, makes him shiver and hide in his rooms, hoping Mr. Grindelwald will tell him soon what he knows of Credence’s past. 

Family. 

It’s a strange concept, now that he’s no longer under his Ma--Mary Lou’s hold. His sisters are dead or have forgotten him through magic, and though it puts a pit in his stomach to think it, he has wondered if perhaps that’s better than knowing he’s a wizard...or a squib, as Mr. Grindelwald has called him. 

Chastity would be horrified to know how far he has fallen from the grace of God, though he suspects Modesty would find the whole thing greatly amusing. He smiles softly, recalling her sweet demeanor and gentle disposition, how she would crawl into bed with him after Mary Lou had beaten him bloody and hold his hand while he cried softly. 

Clenching his hands, he feels the pull of scar tissue on his palms, a constant reminder of the sins he has committed, of the sinful nature of his very blood. He is an abomination, Ma had told him that over and over again, tried to beat it from him, cleansing him with prayer and spilt blood, but the  _ wrongness _ remained. 

After being blasted apart by the magic of those people in the train tunnels, the blackness that had lurked inside him like a demon had just...gone. 

That’s a blessing of sorts, he supposes. 

No more does it pulse in his veins, inky darkness waiting till he cannot control the hurt and anger, bursting forth with vicious rage, laying waste to anything in its way. 

It means that he isn’t unwillingly and unwittingly harming people anymore--though Mr. Grindelwald seems disappointed by his lack of magical ability, despite the wand he had given Credence in an attempt to draw his powers out. 

It’s only been a few weeks that he’s been here with Grindelwald, but the man hasn’t been able to help him use whatever magic may lie in his blood, to both of their frustration and disappointment. Credence hopes that with time he will be able to do magic, if only to make the older man happy; when Grindelwald is displeased there is a gleam to his eyes that frightens Credence--though the man hasn’t actually hurt him, he wonders if he will. 

Grindelwald has taught him spells and given him books to read on magical history, made sure he has plenty of food and a warm bed to sleep in, and yet he has not given Credence the one thing he truly wants--the information he had promised Credence; the name of his mother and father--his  _ real _ parents. 

The door to his chambers opens with a bang and Credence flinches where he’s seated by the fire, reading. Heart thumping in his chest like a frightened rabbit, he watches as Grindelwald storms into the room, visage dark and angry, lips twisted into a scowl. 

“Come Credence,” he commands, waving a hand and huffing when the boy doesn’t rise quickly enough for his liking. Credence hurries along behind him as the older man turns on his heel and marches down the hall, the stairs winding beneath them as they descend into the icy bowels of the castle. 

Curiosity gnaws at Credence; he’s not allowed in this part of the castle— _ too dangerous my boy _ Grindelwald had told him—the affectionate term reminding him painfully of...Graves. His stomach lurches as he recalls how the man who had promised to help him so utterly destroyed him and the faith Credence had placed in him. 

Grindelwald waves his wand and a door at the end of the hallway swings open, the blackness beyond it like a starless sky, a void into which everything light and good dies. A shudder runs over Credence as Grindelwald ushers him forward, the tip of his wand illuminating and then casting a ball of light up, so that the room is revealed. 

His entire body goes rigid at the sight of the man shackled to the floor, gaunt and haunted--no, he thinks,  _ haunting _ ...because this man, he’s a ghost of Credence’s past and when he lifts his gaze, the recognition there makes his stomach lurch. 

_ Graves _

* * *

 

**_Now_ **

Breath shallow and too fast, sweat cools on his skin in the light of the fire and Credence swallows the bile that has flooded his mouth, overwhelmed in a swell of emotion and sensation. With shaking hands he sets aside his book and rises from the chair on unsteady legs, his feet carrying him down the hall and into the room Mr. Graves had given him.

_ Mr. Graves _

_ Percy _

_ Please come back _

An unwilling whimper rips from his throat and he hurries to kneel down and shove a hand under the mattress, searching until he finds the small bundle of cloth he’s searching for. Tucking it into his pocket, he walks unsteadily into the bathroom and unwraps the fabric on the porcelain of the counter, hands shaking as he stares at the brightly gleaming silver and green within. 

The rustle of clothing is loud in his ears, like white noise, and he can feel the blood rushing too fast in his veins--he’s flashing hot and cold and his palms are sweaty and nothing seems quite real until he picks up the slip of silver, the familiar feel of it grounding him that little bit. 

The lines running up and down his thighs gleam silver under the light, though there are three that are still pink, freshly formed. 

Pressing down in a smooth line, he inhales sharply at the hot swell of pain, clear and true and like a miracle, it cuts through the chaos in his brain, silencing the endless thoughts and  _ guilt _ until all he knows is the heat of his blood streaming out onto his skin and the scent of copper in the air and the dull burning ache of the cut in his skin. 

Fingers shaking, he sets aside the blade, blood staining the porcelain, bright and shiny. For the first time all day he breaths steadily, the turmoil that has been surging within him finally abated. 

He’s done this every day Mr. Graves has been gone—though he knows if the older man knew about this he’d be worried for his well being and blame himself for leaving Credence and a ripple of guilt sweeps through him at the easily imagined hurt expression on Mr. Graves’s face. 

Eyes hooded, he leans against the tank of the toilet, the cool enamel soothing against his clammy skin as blood cools against his thigh, tiny droplets falling to the ground. Heartbeat regular and slow now, he reaches out with slightly numb fingers for the bottle, dripping out three tiny splashes of dittany. 

Mr. Graves had used it when Credence had cut himself in the kitchen weeks prior, and as he closes up the bottle, the scar winks at him from the meat of his palm, the same place that Percy had pressed a kiss to once it had healed. 

When he gets to his feet he’s clear headed, calm. 

Washing off the blade, he wraps it and the bottle of dittany in the cloth, fingers sure and steady as he carries it back to his bedroom, tucking it safely beneath the mattress once more. As he’s tucking the fabric back into place, he hears the lock of the front door clicking and his heart races because that means...

“Credence?”

_ Percy is home _

* * *

 

**_Then_ **

He’s handing out pamphlets on the corner of the street, hoping that maybe he’ll see Miss Tina again, stomach rumbling, reminding him of the fact that his breakfast of stodgy, tasteless porridge was many, many hours ago now, when he looks up and spies a man, standing on the stairs of the Woolworth building, still as a stone in the tide of people flowing around him. 

A strong jaw, piercing eyes and a flicker of curiosity is all he sees before a trio of boys knock into him, shoving him to the ground and sending his papers fluttering into the puddle of refuse lining the gutter.

They laugh and kick at him until a police officer sidles over and sends them on their way with an admonishment to  _ be kind to the boy _ that Credence really doesn’t think they’ll heed in the future. As the man helps him to his feet and watches as he gathers his papers, he frowns deeply, suspicion pulling his already heavy jowls down further. 

“You have a permit to be here boy?”

Credence stammers out a reply, but before he can truly form an answer, another, larger figure is looming by his side and he flinches away, pressing his papers to his chest. Half are soaked and ruined, in tatters, and his back aches in an echo of the agony it will feel tonight when Ma finds out. 

“Here you are officer.”

Credence risks a glance at the man beside him and feels his stomach lurch at the familiar and sternly handsome visage of the man. He’s tall, broad shouldered and has grey sweeping the hair at his temples, his clothing visibly expensive and Credence feels ashamed to be so shabby next to a man of such obvious prestige. 

The man has offered a slip of paper to the officer who studies it with some skepticism before nodding slowly and handing it back to the handsome man. “Very good sir. Next time, make sure the boy has it on him,” he orders before giving them a brusque nod and sauntering away. 

Credence waits a moment till he’s out of ear shot and then murmurs, “Thank you very much sir, but I-I don’t have a permit.” He could swear that the paper is blank as the man shoves it back into the breast pocket of his suit, but that can’t be right, so he shakes his head and carefully lifts his gaze to meet the older man’s. 

He’s greeted by a warm smile and a gleam of amusement in the man’s eye. 

“You’re very welcome my boy. And not to worry, I carry spares to keep police off the backs of enterprising young men like yourself.” 

He offers a hand for Credence to shake, “Percival Graves,” he says, brow furrowing when Credence winces at the squeeze of his grip. In a smooth, quick motion his fingers curl around Credence’s wrist and flips it over so the bloody, scarred palm is revealed. 

Mr. Graves’s fingers on his wrist tighten and his lips purse, and Credence thinks for a moment he can smell electricity in the air, hot and sharp. The man--Mr. Graves he reminds himself--exhales slowly and shakes his head, “Tina was right,” he mutters and hope skips through Credence at the name. 

“You know Miss Tina?” he asks excitedly, eyes widening hopefully. 

Mr. Graves’s eyes lift to meet his and his lips curl into something that is almost a smile, eyes warm. “Yes, in fact, I’m her boss,” he replies and Credence barely realizes that he’s still holding onto his hand, thumb brushing over the delicate skin of his wrist, until a shiver runs over his skin at the sensation. 

He should pull away, he knows, but this touch, it’s soft and gentle and kind and instead of pulling away, he leans into it, swaying closer to Mr. Graves. 

“Miss Tina, I haven’t seen her in awhile,” he tells Mr. Graves, peering up at the man through his thick lashes, eyes wide and anxious as worry colors his voice and the older man shakes his head kindly.

“She’s been assigned to a case that’s kept her quite busy,” he tells Credence and though he’s not sure, there’s a shade of dishonesty to the way it’s said that tells Credence there’s something not quite right about what he’s been told. 

“Oh. She had promised to come back, that’s all,” Credence tells him, crestfallen as his hope slips away that she might want to be his...what, friend? Credence didn’t have friends and he mentally berates himself for thinking that anyone as nice as Miss Tina would spend her time with  _ him.  _

“I’m sure she has better things to do,” Credence murmurs, eyes cast down as he struggles not to lose control and cry in front of this man who is everything Credence wishes he was; tall, strong, handsome and wealthy. 

A light pressure to Credence’s wrist draws his wide, sorrowful gaze back up to Mr. Graves’s. He smiles this time and the light in Credence’s eyes flares as he tips his chin up to stare at him through impossibly long lashes. 

“She asked me to check on you while she’s unavailable,” he tells the boy, “She was very upset she couldn’t come herself to make sure you were well.” 

Hope springs anew in Credence’s chest, small and weak like a baby bird, but hope, nonetheless. 

“I hope it’s not too much of a disappointment,” Mr. Graves jokes, lifting a brow playfully. The sharp planes of the Credence’s face flush a pretty pink at how handsome the man looks when he’s smiling, joking. 

_ Filthy boy!  _

_ Invert!  _

“I-I’m sorry sir! I didn’t mean that...I’m very happy you’re here...I mean, I’m happy to have met you,” Credence stammers, gaze dropping and shoulders hunching as he awaits the blow and sharp reprimand that is sure to come. 

_ Rude boy! You don’t speak to your elders like that!  _

Credence shivers as a large hand lands on his shoulder, his body flinching as it squeezes gently. 

“I was only teasing Credence. I apologize for it,” Mr. Graves murmurs quietly, voice soft with regret. The words sink in slowly and Credence realizes that perhaps a beating isn’t going to be meted out for his stupidity and rudeness.

The tension very slowly begins to slip out of his bird bone shoulders and after a long moment, Credence looks up at Mr. Graves once more, gaze flickering over the handsome visage watching him with some warm expression that Credence can’t decipher.  

“Credence, would you come have dinner with me?” Mr. Graves asks suddenly, surprising Credence, because why would this man want to spend any time with him? He’s been rude when the man has only been kind, and he certainly doesn’t deserve to be rewarded with anything like more time together, even if he desperately wants to say  _ yes _ . 

Mr. Graves must be able to see he’s about to refuse because he squeezes the thin shoulder beneath his palm again, effectively silencing him. “I need your help with something Credence, and I’m terribly hungry, so I’d be very grateful if you’d come and share a meal while we speak.”

Credence hesitates, because although his stomach is empty and churning, he still has pamphlets to hand out and if he returns home too late, it’ll earn him a beating from Ma. 

_ Thoughtless boy! Where were you? Consorting with the devil like that whore of a mother that birthed you?  _

He flinches as her ugly words ring in his head and he shakes it firmly, “I cannot sir. My mother will be displeased if I’m to return late,” he explains. 

“Then I’ll just have to make sure you’re there on time,” Mr. Graves murmurs in reply, lips curling up when Credence dares a glance up at him. “Come Credence, dine with me,” he asks, voice soft and faintly pleading. 

Mr. Graves is asking, no  _ pleading _ for him to come and have dinner with him, and though Credence suspects he’s a witch, he doesn’t sense anything threatening about the older man. But perhaps that’s how the devil will steal his soul; with a handsome face and a handful of kind words. 

That’s what Ma would say. 

But Ma doesn’t have to know he reminds himself. As long as he hands out all of his pamphlets, she’ll never have to know he met with Mr. Graves. 

Finally decided, he nods and ducks his head when Mr. Graves smiles brightly down at him, the warmth of it like sunshine on a frozen bud, melting the ice and encouraging it to bloom. The little act of rebellion makes his heart beat faster, or maybe that’s because of the firm hand on his lower back, guiding him through the busy streets. 

Mr. Graves is a large, protective warmth at his side, a warmth that Credence finds himself leaning into without even meaning to. He can hear his mother’s voice, hissing venom, cursing his sinful nature, his unholy desires, every foul name and curse like blows against his already broken heart. 

If there was something he could do to make his Ma love him, he would have done it years ago, but eventually he realized that his Ma would never,  _ could  _ never love him. He wasn’t sure if it was because he’s a bastard, an invert, or just fundamentally unlovable, but it doesn’t bother him like it used to. 

What love he doesn’t get from her, he gives to Modesty. She’s sweet still, untainted by their mother’s hate and vitriol, and he hopes that what little he can do for her will be enough to keep her from turning out like Chastity. He cannot say he loves Chastity, but he treats her with care and kindness, even when she rejects him, because he hopes that someday, her heart will soften, before it is too late. 

They eat in a little diner, tucked into a corner booth, and as they share a meal, Credence shares more about the church he lives in and the beliefs his Ma has taught him. 

“Never let the fire in your heart go out,” Credence explains. “We must always burn for God, to shine brightly for those still in the dark so they know the truth.”

Mr. Graves lifts a brow, “That witches are real?”

Credence nods, “And a threat to our immortal souls.”

He’s wondered for a time if Miss Tina was a witch; there was an aura about her that spoke of power, power like no one else he knew had, and as he spends more time with Mr. Graves, he thinks the older man too has it. 

Mr. Graves gives a solemn nod and murmurs for him to keep eating instead of asking more about witches and Credence flushes, ducks his head, his occasional glances up through his lashes curious and longing. 

Mr. Graves is very handsome, Credence thinks. The grey at his temples is distinguished, highlighting a strong jaw that Credence yearns to reach out and touch, but he doesn’t, because Mr. Graves isn’t like him, he isn’t  _ wrong _ and perverted by Satan. That doesn’t mean Credence doesn’t hoard every smile and gentle touch though, no, he tucks the memory of them away so that when he’s alone later, he can recall the kindness that has been a balm to his broken heart. 

Mr. Graves manages to get a bowl of soup, three thick slices of bread and a cup of hot cocoa into Credence before he’s stuffed full, vaguely nauseated from so much rich food, but so grateful to the older man that he’s stammering over his thanks as they walk through the darkened streets to the church. 

Credence’s steps slow as they approach; he doesn’t want this time to end. He wants to sit in the diner forever and listen to Mr. Graves tell him stories about his colleagues, his exaggerated faces and accents eliciting sharp, unexpected laughter from Credence. He wants to see the man smile, warm and full, eyes crinkling around the edges as he gazes at Credence. He wants to feel that large, firm hand at his back, guiding him, protecting him. 

He wants, wants, wants because he’s a selfish boy, sinful and weak, but for the first time, he doesn’t care, because Mr. Graves has promised to help him get away from the church, in return, he just needs to look for a child displaying unusual behavior.

Ducking his chin, Credence musters his courage and looks up at the man through his lashes, hope beating recklessly in his chest till it feels hard to breath. “Will I...will I see you again soon, sir?”

Mr. Graves smiles softly, hand cupping his cheek in his large palm, and Credence can’t help but sway into it, chest aching at the gentle, kind touch. “Of course Credence. I’ll be back on Tuesday,” he assures him. 

Tuesday; it’s five days away, which feels like eternity, but Credence nods bravely and smiles weakly, “I’ll find out what you need Mr. Graves, I promise,” he swears. 

“Even if you don’t, I’ll still come back Credence.” 

Mr. Graves smiles reassuringly and his thumb traces the line of Credence’s cheekbone, sending a shudder over his spine, melting any resistance left in his soul. Lashes fluttering, his lips curl into a faint smile and he hums softly. 

“Good night then Mr. Graves,” he murmurs, slipping away reluctantly. As he climbs the stairs into the church he can feel eyes on him, but when he looks back, Mr. Graves is gone. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ayyyy I updated! Yikes, sorry it’s been a minute, real life got in the way with a migraine that lingered for days and made it painful to look at a screen!! Hope you’re all well and enjoy this chapter!!

**_Then_ **

Percival has never believed in love at first sight; he scoffs at lovers who flutter and sigh, hearts easily swayed by a pretty face, falling in love over and over again. He’s never felt it, not at first sight anyway. 

Not until Credence. 

Those wide, dark eyes stare up at him with adoration and hope and with every successive touch he can feel the boy respond—lean in and chase his fingers as they slip from his skin. 

He doesn’t think he knows what he’s doing to Percival’s heart—no, the boy is far too naive to realize just how suggestive his looks through those impossibly long lashes are, and to his credit, Percy tries his damndest to ignore them and treat Credence as he would any other human being he wasn’t wildly attracted to, but in the end, he’s less than successful.

He hugs the boy far too often, he knows, but it seems to help Credence hold himself together, to give him strength when he’s breaking down and sobbing, and it devastates Percy to see his lovely face twisted in pain and sorrow. 

He recalls meeting the boy, the surprise in those doe eyes at his kindness, the expectation that he would be harmed for asking a question or say the wrong thing still turns his gut. 

_ Percy sees the way the boy curls in on himself, every line of his body tense as he waits for a beating, and in that moment, he realizes just how deeply the abuse runs, how the boy is afraid of doing  _ **_anything_ ** _ wrong for fear of a beating. Rage swells in him; Tina had told him the boy needed help, but this… _

_ Swallowing down his anger, he gently lays his other hand on the boys’ shoulder, leaving it there when Credence flinches, squeezing lightly in reassurance. “I was only teasing Credence. I apologize for it,” he murmurs, watching as the words sink in and the tension very slowly begins to slip out of his bird bone shoulders. _

_ Now that he has his hands on the boy it’s painfully obvious that he’s not just thin, he’s malnourished. Percy can feel the shift of his muscle and when Credence looks up at him once more, the dark circles under his eyes are deep and pronounced--the kind of shadows that speak of a lifetime of exhaustion. _

_ The last time Percy saw a man look as defeated as Credence was in the war, and for a moment he hears the screaming of dying men and horses and the ground under his feet shakes with mortar fire and when he claws his way back to the  _ **_here_ ** _ and  _ **_now_ ** _ he resolves to help the boy in any way he can. _

_ “Credence, would you come have dinner with me?” Percy asks suddenly, surprising Credence, if the flinch under his hand is any indicator of the boys’ mood. He can see he’s about to refuse so he squeezes the thin shoulder beneath his palm again, effectively silencing him. “I need your help with something Credence, and I’m terribly hungry, so I’d be very grateful if you’d come and share a meal while we speak.” _

_ Credence hesitates, and then shakes his head firmly, “I cannot sir. My mother will be displeased if I’m to return late,” he explains. _

_ “Then I’ll just have to make sure you’re there on time,” Percy murmurs in reply, lips curling up when Credence dares a glance up at him. “Come Credence, dine with me,” he asks, voice soft and faintly pleading.  _

_ It seems that does the trick because the boy slumps and then nods, letting himself be pulled along down the street without further argument. _

_ They eat in a little no-maj diner, tucked into a corner so Credence isn’t noticed, and as they share a meal, he learns more about the church the boy lives in and the dangerous, dark beliefs his foster mother has imbued in him. _

_ “Never let the fire in your heart go out,” Credence explains. “We must always burn for God, to shine brightly for those still in the dark so they know the truth.” _

_ Percy lifts a brow, “That witches are real?” _

_ Credence nods, “And a threat to our immortal souls.” _

_ Percy bites back an incredulous laugh and tilts his head to study the boy, wondering what he’d do if he told him of his and Tina’s true magical nature. Instead, he gives a solemn nod and murmurs for the boy to keep eating. Credence flushes and ducks his head, his occasional glances up through his lashes curious and longing. _

_ It sends a shiver of want through Percy, but he pushes it aside; the boy is innocent, and he won’t corrupt him. _

**_Not unless he wants it_ ** _ his brain whispers treacherously, and he averts his gaze, cursing himself for the thought. _

_ Percival counts it as a victory when he manages to get a bowl of soup, three thick slices of bread and a cup of hot cocoa into the boy before he’s forced to take him home. _

_ They stand in the shadows together, and Percy feels a shiver of something hot curl in his belly when Credence ducks his head, fear of rejection plain when he glances up through thick lashes to ask, “Will I...will I see you again soon, sir?” _

_ Percy’s heart aches at the hope in the boy’s voice; he’s so desperate for any kindness that it doesn’t matter if it comes from a man he barely knows, a man that could very easily hurt him if Percy wasn’t a better man than most, and that thought, the thought of someone harming Credence, it makes ugly rage and jealousy and an urge to protect swell within him.  _

_ Taking a half step closer, he smiles softly, hand cupping that hollow, hungry cheek in his large palm, and he feels it when Credence sways into the touch. His chest aches at the boy’s sweetness, untainted by his vile mother and the everyday darkness of the world around them. “Of course Credence. I’ll be back on Tuesday,” he assures him because nothing, nothing will keep him away now.  _

_ He can see that Credence is disappointed by the length of time, but he nods bravely and smiles weakly, “I’ll find out what you need Mr. Graves, I promise,” he swears.  _

_ “Even if you don’t, I’ll still come back Credence.”  _

_ He means it too; even if Credence can’t help him find the Obscurus, he’ll come back. Because this young man obviously needs someone to care about him, to take care of him. And he can do that. He can make sure no one ever hurts his boy again.  _

**_His boy?_ ** _ Oh, that was a dangerous thought indeed.  _

_ Percy smiles reassuringly and his thumb traces the line of Credence’s cheekbone, sending a shudder over the boy’s spine, melting any resistance left in his thin frame. Those thick, captivating lashes flutter and his pink lips curl into a faint smile as he hums softly and leans into the touch a moment longer.  _

_“Good night then Mr. Graves,” he murmurs, slipping away reluctantly. As he climbs the stairs into the church_ _Percy wonders not for the first time if Credence will be able to help him find the dark force that has been plaguing the streets of New York. It seems the church is the epicenter of the incredible events, but what exactly that means, he hasn’t yet figured out._

_ He turns away reluctantly, heading back to his office where he’ll work late into the night, trying to keep his mind off the beautiful young man.  _

**_Oh Percy, you besotted old fool_ ** _ he thinks ruefully, shaking his head at his folly.  _

_ He might be half in love with the boy, but there’s no way he can ever be with a boy half his age, and a no-maj at that.  _

_ He tries to remember that as he recalls Credence’s wide doe eyes looking up at him adoringly, but it’s a struggle, one he tries to drown in firewhiskey, but all he earns is a vicious hangover and a belly full of bile and regret.  _

_ He’ll just have to be careful, guard his heart.  _

The third time they meet Credence asks if he’s special like Miss Tina and Percy has the stark realization that both he and Tina had sought out the boy while covered by a notice me not spell—something a no maj would never have seen through. 

“Special how, Credence?”

The boy swallows hard and his gaze darts away, though he’s watching from the corner of his eye, and the slim set of his shoulders is tense, as though he’s ready to flinch away if his question is met with reproach. 

It makes him sick to think that this boy is so cowed that the simple act of asking a question has him in knots. Softening, he reaches out and closes his fingers around the too thin wrist, exposed by his too small clothing and squeezes gently. 

“Credence.” He calls the boys’ name and smiles softly when he lifts his eyes to meet Percy’s gaze hesitantly. “You don’t need to fear angering me,” he assures him, “you may ask me anything without fear of punishment.”

He can see by the widening of his eyes that he’s taken Credence by surprise and after a moment his throat works and a question spills forth. 

“Areyouawitch?”

It’s said so fast Percy can barely understand, but when he realizes what’s been asked, he fights back the indulgent smile and nods solemnly. 

“I am, though, males in the Magical community are called wizards.”

That seems to meet Credence’s expectations because he just nods and looks thoughtful. 

“Did you sign your name on Satan’s list for your powers then?”

The question is so unexpected that it surprises a laugh out of him before he recovers and shakes his head firmly, biting back more laughter at the look on Credence’s face. 

“No my boy, I was born with magic. All magic users are born with it—there’s no signing a list to gain powers,” he explains and is suddenly curious, because the boy doesn’t look like this surprises him, if anything, he looks...disappointed?

It dawns on him then, that perhaps Credence wanted a way to gain powers, to have a way to fight back against his abuse. 

If his suspicions about the boy are right though, he  _ does  _ have power, latent and weak though it might be. 

Before he can open his mouth and tell him this, Credence smiles faintly, eyes wry as they meet his, and Percy thinks that he’s the loveliest man he’s ever met. 

“I’m glad sir, I’d hate to be consorting with an agent of Satan,” he murmurs and it takes him a moment to realize the normally dour boy is making a joke. 

Laughter rolls out of him, too loud for the small diner, but Percy doesn’t care because it feels good and when he checks, he sees that Credence’s smile has grown wider as he watches Percy laugh. 

“Ah, well, Credence, I’m glad of that too,” he muses, still smiling fondly at the boy, who is leaning towards him, face upturned like a daisy toward the sun. 

“Can you do magic?” Credence asks him and both men fall quiet as the no maj waitress brings a fresh mug of hot cocoa for the boy and tops off his coffee before she’s gone once more. 

Taking a sip of his coffee, he nods sharply and then lays his hand on the table, palm up, waiting for Credence to lay his hand down. It takes a moment for the boy to decide, and then his spindly fingers are brushing against the meat of his palm before sliding over his wrist and resting there. 

Shivers run over his body at the unintentionally sensual touch, and he wonders if the boy can feel his pulse rabbiting under the thin skin of his wrist. 

Gently, he turns Credence’s hand palm up, exposing the marks on his skin and the fresh welts that his mother has left on his hand. Lifting his gaze to Credence, he swipes his thumb over the marks, feels the skin knit together into fresh scars and then dissolve into soft pink skin, and the shudder that passes through the boy’s body is pronounced. 

There’s a look of utter bliss on his too thin face; his lashes flutter and his lips part and Percy realizes that this must be the closest to a good, pleasant touch that the boy has ever experienced. 

Something in his chest aches painfully at that and instead of letting go like he knows he should, he takes the other hand and repeats the gesture, watching as the boy’s plump bottom lip is captured by his teeth—a low whine slips from between his teeth and heat flashes over Percy’s body at the sound. 

He knows,  _ knows _ that Credence wasn’t intending it to sound as arousing as it did, and he’s disgusted with himself a little for perverting the kindness and affection between them into something he’s sure the boy isn’t angling for—probably doesn’t even know exists between two men. 

Credence is breathing shallowly, a pink flush on his cheeks that’s entirely too appealing, and when his gaze finally lifts to meet Percy’s, there’s such a depth of adoration there that it hammers yet another crack in his defenses. 

“I promise, I’ll protect you,” he murmurs urgently, recklessly, because he doesn’t know if that’s true, if he’ll be able to stop that vile woman from laying her hands on him again. 

But he promises, because he means it. 

“I won’t let her hurt you again.”

_ Merlin, have mercy on me _ he prays, because he thinks he might just be losing his heart and his mind because of this sweet boy.

* * *

 

**_Now_ **

The door shuts heavily behind him and he stumbles into the wall of the foyer, each breath painful, and he thinks maybe Sera was right—it was too soon to go after Grindelwald. 

He’d been held captive for five months before Credence had helped him escape, and he’s damned lucky his mind didn’t shatter...though he’s not so certain that he’s all that whole anymore. 

Day after day under the cruciatus isn’t exactly a recipe for sanity, but after spending a month in the intensive care unit of the hospital, he had finally been allowed to return to his home. 

The magical residue of a cleansing had left the stately brownstone smelling like ozone and copper, but there were no lingering curses or dark magic, so he had resumed living there, though he had disposed of nearly every item of clothing and furniture that Grindelwald would have touched during his impersonation of Percy. 

It was a very good thing then that he had more wealth than three men could spend. 

Most nights since his return home had been spent lying in front of the fire in his room, drunk on firewhiskey and darkly contemplative of all his many errors. 

Too confident, he decided, too arrogant, too  _ foolish _ . 

He had gone after Grindelwald in Europe and in his bloody pursuit of the man, had placed a target straight on his back for the mad man to aim for. 

It was no surprise that when Grindelwald had attacked him it had been after a meeting with Credence, when he was most lost in the clouds, happier than he’d been in years, and entirely too vulnerable. 

His thoughts are violently interrupted by the agonizing pain knifing through him from the patchwork of wounds stitched across his body; ribs aching and lungs burning so fiercely he’s stumbling off balance, swaying into the wall for support. 

Black spots dance in his vision as his skull throbs and he lurches forward, one hand falling along the silk wallpaper, a trail of crimson left in his wake as his vision swims and the taste of copper floods his tongue. 

“Credence?”

He calls out again for the boy weakly, praying that he hasn’t gone to visit Queenie like he has before when Percival has been gone. 

“Mr. Graves?”

Footsteps approach quickly and Credence is suddenly before him, eyes wide and scared, mouth hanging half open in shock and Percy musters up a faint smile for him, trying to reassure him that he’s alright when he’s not sure that’s at all true.

“Could you help me to my bed?” 

The words are barely out before Credence is at his side, taking his weight and Percy mumbles out a refusal,  _ it’s not so bad _ he lies, but Credence just shakes his head, “I’m not blind or stupid Mr. Graves,” Credence mutters to him, sounding deeply unhappy and worried. “Please don’t lie,” he huffs and hauls him towards the stairs— _ stairs, how could he have forgotten the damn stairs? This is going to hurt _ he thinks.

He can’t really find the breath to answer and he’s pretty sure there’s something wrong with his lungs because it feels like he’s breathing water—too thick and wet and painful to be right. 

Wincing in agony as they climb up the mahogany stairs, he’s only vaguely aware of Credence speaking, and when he’s able to focus, he realizes the boy is praying. 

“Mother Mary we beseech you, please do not abandon your child. Christ, we ask you to heal these wounds, let your son see another day.”

Interspersed with these pleas is a muttered prayer of  _ Please be ok, please god, please _ , and something in his chest lurches at how desperate the young man sounds. 

His vision is going now and in his fading consciousness, he sees his bed looming up at him—or is he falling into it? 

It feels like...nothing. 

“What do I do?” Credence pleads and he musters up energy to speak from some hidden reserve, eyes barely cracked open so he can meet those warm brown eyes, so scared and wide it makes his heart lurch. 

_ Dittany _

_ healing potion _

_ blue bottle _

_ under...sink… _

His breath rattles in his chest with each word and agonizing pain sucks him into the void; distantly he hears maniacal laughter and a cold, foreign voice calling his name. 

_ Credence _

It’s the last word on his lips before the darkness consumes him.

* * *

 

**_Then_ **

Blackness

Always blackness

It’s soundless and absolute and it steals his hope and sanity and he’s not too certain that he’s actually alive anymore, maybe he’s just blackness now too. 

A void. 

Nothingness. 

There’s a sound, like hinges screaming and the blackness shifts, lighter, but still he sees nothing. 

When light appears out of nothing it’s pure and white and it  _ burns burns burns _ . 

A broken, shuddering gasp of pain emits from his throat, worn raw by weeks, months, years, lifetimes of screaming in agony, and he crumples in on himself, whimpering and screwing his eyes shut against the white hot pain clawing its way through his skull. 

He hears someone speaking, that cold, calculating voice and it scratches at his brain, demanding to be recognized and he blinks slowly, trying to adjust to the light after the endless blackness. 

Through the tears streaming out of his ravaged eyes he peers cautiously at the figures in the doorway, trying to make them out and see who it is that’s come to toy with him. 

A halo of nearly white hair makes him pause... _ Angel? _ his brain supplies sluggishly, but no, that’s not right...he lifts a hand to rub at his eyes and hears the clank of something metal, looks down and sees he’s shackled and he  _ remembers _ . 

Grindelwald.

He’s in Nurmengard and if he’s lucky—and he almost laughs at that, because he's pretty sure luck abandoned him long ago—someone has finally realized that the man who has been impersonating him is a madman. 

Rubbing furiously at his eyes, he hisses in pain as they clear and he looks back to the doorway, lashes fluttering at the bright light, corneas aching under the assault. 

It’s Grindelwald for sure and beside him is…

_ Credence  _

It’s said on a gasp of breath, disbelief and agony filling him; Merlin, if the boy is his prisoner too then Percy has utterly failed to protect him...but he knew that long ago, when he failed to take him from that blasted woman and her fanatical followers. 

Lurching forward against his restraints, he holds out a hand to him, voice rasping as he calls his name again, louder this time.

The boy flinches back and is held in place by a firm hand from Grindelwald on his thin shoulder. “Do not fear Credence, he will not hurt you, he is contained.”

_ Hurt Credence?  _

He’d cut off his own hand before he did  _ anything  _ to harm the young man. 

But he can see the relief in Credence’s eyes and with a sinking sensation, he knows that Grindelwald didn’t just destroy his life and reputation and sanity, he’s taken this too from Percy—the trust and affection that had blossomed so easily between he and Credence. 

It hurts him worse than any curse or torture he’s endured and under the weight of it his chin drops toward his chest as he struggles to breath and bite back his sobs. 

“I thought you might like to take a bit of revenge on the man who hurt you Credence,” Grindelwald croons, words slick with vile intent designed to ensnare the young man.

He hears a noise from the boy but it’s not an answer and when Grindelwald speaks again he can hear the annoyance blooming in his voice. 

“Come boy, there’s no need to be squeamish, this is the man who betrayed you, lied to you,  _ hit _ you.”

At this, Percy jolts upright, wishing his glare could kill the other man for  _ his _ lies to Credence. 

Grindelwald laughs and leans into Credence, his lips pressed to the shell of the boy’s ear, “See how he glares! He hates you! He’d see you dead if his shackles didn’t dampen his magic.”

_ Lies lies lies  _

They drip from Grindelwald’s lips like poisonous honey, tainting the mind. 

He stares at the man as his body comes alive with adrenaline and hate, every inch of him weary and hurt down to the very marrow of his bones, but he refuses to give into it. 

His gaze slips to Credence and he softens, trying for a smile through the thick beard he’s grown against his will, though that’s hardly the only thing that’s happened against his will. 

Credence flinches and turns away, shedding the hand on his shoulder and Percy fears he’s losing his only opportunity so he calls out, voice hoarse as he speaks to the boy. 

“Never let the fire in your heart go out.”

His heart lurches as Credence falters, every line of his thin frame going still. 

Then he takes a step and then another and another until he’s out of sight and Percy exhales raggedly, heart burning with the kindled embers of hope.

Grindelwald grins at him, laughter rolling out of him in waves until it’s the only thing he can hear even long after the light is gone and he’s consumed by blackness once more.

* * *

 

**_Now_ **

Consciousness comes slowly; with an ache in his ribs and a throbbing in his skull, Percy knows he’s not dead. 

Not yet anyway.

It feels like someone’s poured tar into his skull and when he tries to open his eyes it takes all of his precious reserves of control not to whimper at the light scouring his retinas. 

He takes mental note of his injuries and how they feel; ribs aching with a burning sort of pain, skull throbbing and too thick feeling, stomach roiling in a way that promises trouble if he moves too much, and the lingering taste of copper in his mouth doesn’t help that sentiment any. 

“Holy father judge my sins, I’m unafraid of what they’ll bring to me, and I’m not the son you wanted, but please,  _ please _ don’t take Mr. Graves.”

He hears the hitching breaths and desperation in Credence’s voice, growing thick with tears and his own throat goes tight, heat burning behind his eyes at the grief in Credence’s voice.

“Please, holy father it’s him I love, I beseech you, don’t take him.”

A jolt flows through him at the realization that Credence is praying, praying for  _ him _ , and that one word makes his stomach jolt and his heart skip— _ love.  _

“Mother Mary grant me your peace and guidance, tell me how to keep Mr. Graves safe. I am unworthy of kneeling before you, but I plead for your intercession.”

Percy listens intently, guilt burning in his stomach at the intrusion on such an obviously private moment, but it’s not like he can deafen himself to offer the boy privacy. 

“Please, Holy Father, I know I am unworthy of your love, but  _ he _ isn’t. He’s good, so,  _ so _ good, and he needs you. I  _ need _ him. My love is wrong, perverted and sinful, I know, but he does not deserve to die for my sinful nature.”

He can’t stand it anymore, it burns him too much to hear Credence crying and begging an entity that he’s fairly certain doesn’t exist for the simple act of loving. 

“C-Credence.”

A sharp gasp follows his weak utterance of the boy’s name and when he manages to flutter his eyes open enough, he has to tilt his chin till he can find him. 

Grief and regret turn his stomach—though maybe that’s the concussion, he’s not sure—because Credence is on the floor, down on his knees at the foot of the bed, hands clasped in fervent prayer, clothes and skin stained in gory streaks of crimson that Percy realizes with a jolt is his blood. 

Those dark chocolate eyes are filled with hope and despair in equal measures and when he cracks a smile, Credence crumbles. 

Sobs wrack his thin frame as he collapses forward, forehead pressing into the carpet, wounded cries wrenching from his chest. 

Tears blur Percy’s vision and he lifts a hand helplessly, hissing in pain and gasping out his name again, begging the boy wordlessly to look up. 

“Credence...please,” he manages to whisper, wincing at the ache in his ribs when he breathes too deeply. 

The boy fumbles upright, still shaking and crying and when Percy waves him over, there’s no hesitation before he’s scrambling onto the bed and sliding himself close. 

Percy bites back a groan as the slight pressure of his body against him; Credence’s forehead is pressed to his shoulder and he can feel the boy’s tears staining his shirt—though it’s long ruined by the blood staining the expensive fabric. 

One hand furrows weakly through the silky locks, nails dragging as he pets the boy, throat thick as he makes soft, soothing nonsensical sounds. It’s as much for Credence as it is for him; this reassurance that’s he’s alright, he’s alive, he’s  _ safe _ .

“Shh, I’m here my boy, I’m here.”

As tears of his own slip out, Percy squeezes his eyes shut and clings to the boy with what little strength he has in these tired arms of his. 

_ Have mercy _ he prays to Credence’s God,  _ Mercy on my heart.  _

He hopes that if he just lays here, next to Credence, he might find an answer to his prayers, an answer about what he’s supposed to do now that he knows Credence loves him. 

Because for the first time in his life, he doesn’t have any good answers. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Songs for this chapter are Primavera and Drop by Ludovico Einaudi.

**_Now_ **

Credence can feel it when Mr. Graves falls asleep; his body going slack into the downy mattress below them. He’d fear the man is dead—he’s so pale and broken looking—if it wasn’t for the deep even breaths and steady beats of his heart echoing into Credence’s chest. 

Never in his life has he been so afraid, not even when the Aurors blew him apart as the obscurus and he had shattered into little more than ashes and agony. 

Seeing Mr. Graves bloodied, injured and near death had been worse than he could have ever imagined in the darkest recesses of his mind. He lays there, listening to him breathe and prays his thanks to God for keeping the man he loves alive.

Slowly, he retracts himself from where his legs are tangled with Mr. Graves’s, the hand on his head and the fingers in his hair slipping away slowly, as if they are reluctant to release their purchase on him, even as their owner sleeps.

Gently, he arranges the blankets around Mr. Graves, tucking him in carefully before slipping out of the room on light, silent feet. 

Under the bright electric lights of the bathroom, Credence stares into the mirror at his gory appearance. Rusty stains of Mr. Graves’s blood are smeared across his shirt, up his throat and over his sharp cheekbone. 

Nausea rises in his stomach and he’s lurching for the toilet and expelling everything in his stomach in great wrenching heaves that leave him weak and shaking when they’re over. 

Tucking his knees against his chest, his arms wind around his thin frame as he shakes, the reality of almost losing Mr. Graves just now hitting him. 

His skin is clammy and cold as he sobs, the pressure in his chest like that of the obscurus trying to escape, but it’s gone; this is the  _ other _ monster that resides in him, the dark ugly thing that makes him a sinner, a foul invert and a useless vessel for the Holy Spirit. 

He needs...he needs…

Something lands on the ground next to his face and through teary eyes he realizes it’s the bundle of fabric from under his mattress. In his distress he must have summoned it, without realizing he was using magic. 

His fingers tremble as he unwraps it, the cool touch of the metal grounding him; he knows what comes next and it’s just about the only thing that’s holding him together right now. 

The wound from yesterday is bright pink, raw, new, and his hand only tremors once before he’s opening a new line of white hot pain next to it. Adrenaline and endorphins make tiny lights dance in his eyes, a shimmering, warm sensation flooding his veins that sends a shudder up his spine. 

His heart beats rapidly with euphoria before it slows, the moment rapidly losing its glow. The anxiety and shame and self loathing creep back in eagerly to that empty space inside him, like inky black tendrils, eager to latch on and drown him in their shadows. 

His breath rushes out in a gasping whimper as he draws the blade over his skin again; hands trembling as the pain slips into him, knife hot and unrelenting. 

It usually clears his mind, focuses him, but it’s not...it’s not  _ working  _ and he sobs a little, fingers shaking as he hastily cuts himself again, crying out between gritted teeth at the raw pain that does nothing to quell his inner turmoil. 

The blade slips from between bloody fingers, clanging to the floor with a light silvery noise that he barely notices. He’s breathing too fast and the blood is coursing down the milky skin of his thigh and he’s cold, he’s  _ so cold _ . 

He fumbles the bottle of dittany, crying out in dismay when the green glass shatters onto the floor. Tears burn down his cheeks as he curses himself;  _ Idiot! Useless! Sinful, wretched boy!  _

His Ma’s voice screeches in his head and he cowers in the corner by the clawfoot tub, sheltering himself from her words but unable to shunt them out of his mind. 

He’s  _ weak _ and  _ useless _ and he  _ hates _ himself for it, for asking so much of Mr. Graves when he can’t offer anything in return. 

By the time his tears slow, there’s a small puddle of blood on the tile beneath him and his cut skin throbs when he moves, shuffling to his hands and knees to clean up the broken glass and bloody blade. 

Carefully he binds the wounds on his thigh, hissing at the pain, but relishing in it because now he has something to remind him of his weak, sinful nature, his inadequacy and uselessness. 

This will be his punishment, for taking so much from Mr. Graves, for his sinful nature. 

Now he won’t forget.

* * *

 

**_Then_ **

Credence carefully sits at the piano in the conservatory, fingers delicately tracing over he ivory. It’s been so long since he was allowed to play; it was one of the few things Ma had allowed him to do without reproach or recrimination. 

He begins to play, teasing out a soft, delicate melody that echoes into the vast room. He imagines he’s playing for someone, that there’s a body in one of those big chairs by the fire, dark eyes watching him as he plays, firelight glinting off strands of silver in his hair…

Discordant notes like yowling cats fill the air as his fingers smash into the keys angrily. He shouldn’t be imagining... _ him _ ...Mr. Graves, not after how he had hurt and betrayed Credence. So why does the man continue to creep into his mind at every turn? 

Why can he not let the image of his kind smile go?

Why can he still feel the stroke of his thumb over his palm?

Why can he hear that deep, comforting voice telling him  _ I’ll protect you _ , when he knows it was a lie? 

Fingers trail over his neck and he spasms, skittering away from the touch before those same finger close around his nape and hold him in place; firm and unyielding. 

“My boy, you play beautifully,” Mr. Grindelwald murmurs, voice low and soft, his breath warm on Credence’s ear. 

A shiver runs over his skin and to his shame, heat pools in his stomach. He hates how the man seems to know how to manipulate the dark, immoral urges inside him, but he can’t stop himself from leaning into the touch. 

Grindelwald chuckles, “So needy…” he murmurs, thumb stroking over the column of Credence’s throat so goosebumps rise on his skin and he tilts his head to give him greater access. “Why did you stop playing?” 

It’s an innocuous enough question, but Credence knows if he tells the truth he’ll be mocked for his continuing confusion over Mr. Graves. 

“My mother didn’t like that song. She said it was sinful,” he lies, fingers idly tracing the keys and he can feel Mr. Grindelwald staring down at him thoughtfully. 

“Hmm, well, she was a bloodthirsty no-maj, I’d hardly consider her opinion worthwhile. Play something for me dear boy,” he croons, thumb catching under Credence’s jaw and tilting his face upwards so the older man can bend down and brush his lips over his cheek, the heat of it just barely touching the corner of his mouth. 

Shame and desire wrestle within him and he fights the urge to turn into the embrace, swallowing hard and nodding when the hand slips from his skin. 

_ Just like...no  _ **_not_ ** _ like Mr. Graves… _

Shaking off the unwanted thought, he lays his hands on the keys, and for once the sight of his scars don’t make him grimace. The melody is darker this time, the music coming from the same place that the darkness within him does and it soars through the room, galloping and relentless, his heart pounding along with the rhythm. 

When the last notes fade into soft echoes, Credence flinches at the applause that follows; he had been lost in memory, remembering the fiction that was Mr. Graves’s affection. He’s not sure if those touches and kind eyes actually happened or if it’s a fiction of his own creation, a gross, desperate hope that someone would care enough to save him from his tragic life. 

Mr. Grindelwald’s hands land on his shoulders and Credence fights the urge to shrug them off, instead letting their warmth seep into him, letting it comfort him. He knows that’s likely not the older man’s intent; he’s never been the comforting type in the past, but Credence is greedy and takes it anyway. 

“That was beautiful Credence,” the older man tells him in a hushed voice, one hand lifting to stroke his fingers through Credence’s curls. “Such a talented boy,” he croons, “so lovely.”

His hand clenches in Credence’s hair and turns him, tilting his head back so his throat is exposed and Credence’s heart beats rapidly, his breaths coming in too fast puffs. The heat in his stomach is shameful, embarrassing, but when the older man leans down and presses his face to Credence’s throat so his nose trails delicately over the pale skin, Credence can’t help the sound that escapes him. 

Grindelwald chuckles and his breath is hot against Credence’s skin, sending needy shivers over his body in deep, desperate waves. 

“Have you used your wand for practice yet today?”

The question is so incongruous to the situation that Credence is momentarily confused, a soft noise from the back of his throat garbling when Grindelwald tightens his fingers in his hair and tugs. 

The man pulls back and stares down at him, thin lips pressing together in annoyance. 

“N-not yet,” Credence admits, swallowing hard when the older man’s frown deepens. 

Grindelwald releases him entirely, disappointment turning down the corners of his lips as he shakes his head, “If you’re not going to practice and train, what am I keeping you here for?” The taunt knifes into Credence, sharp and bright as the older man continues, “You’re wasting my time Credence. You’re taking up valuable time I could use for more important things. If you ever want to learn who your family is, I suggest you do as I ask.”

“I-I’m sorry sir!” His voice is too high, pitched with unshed tears and he  _ hates _ himself for being so weak, so useless. “I’ll—I’ll practice now, I promise!”

He stares earnestly up at the man, praying he won’t be sent away, not before he can find out who his parents were. He has to  _ know.  _

Grindelwald’s face slides into a smile, warm and benevolent, “That’s my good boy,” he murmurs, hand cupping his face gently. Credence’s eyes widen when he leans down and presses their lips together, a firm embrace that’s less about passion than possession. 

“Good boy, sweet boy,” Grindelwald whispers as he pulls away, leaving Credence feeling disturbingly empty, used, bereft. A hand pats his head and the smile the older man gives him is hollow, “Leave off with the piano until you’ve done your spellwork boy.”

Credence nods but Grindelwald is already turning away, the door clanging loudly against the wall as he strides out of the room, leaving Credence staring blankly after him. 

_ Waste of time _

_ Waste of space _

_ Useless boy _

His fingers twist in his lap and he breathes unsteadily as the shadows drown him, twining into his lungs and heart, all the essential places inside him, strangling the light and hope until there’s nothing left but a ghost of the boy he once was. 

He remembers thinking upon his first sighting of Nurmengard that it looked like a haunted castle; now he knows it’s not the only thing haunted—he too is filled with the ghosts of his past, haunting him with every breath he takes until he fears he’s going insane. 

With sorrow echoing inside him, he rises and goes to do as he’s bid; perhaps complacency will earn him more scraps of affection, dribbles of information,  _ something. _

* * *

 

**_Now_ **

It take a few days, but Mr. Graves has finally healed enough to get out of bed without Credence helping him. It worries him though, seeing the older man wince as he sits down in his favorite armchair by the fire, bruises littering his skin still; worries worse when he struggles up the stairs and tries to push Credence away, because doesn’t he  _ know _ ? 

Doesn’t he  _ understand _ that Credence  _ needs  _ to help him; to bind his wounds and heal his broken pieces if he ever wants to even dream of making things right? 

Because it’s his fault Mr. Graves is hurt; Credence is the one who went with Grindelwald, who betrayed Mr. Graves with his naïveté and foolish hope that the twisted man could ever give him anything but pain. 

He had given Mr. Graves and MACUSA everything he knew on Grindelwald’s location, his plans, his followers, in the hopes of making things right, but it had only served to get Mr. Graves hurt. 

So he shoulders his way under Mr. Graves’s arm and helps him up the stairs despite his protestations, brings him breakfast in bed, keeps the house clean, and tries tries tries to just  _ be good _ .

The wounds on his thigh heal slowly, tugging and burning with each step, but he uses the pain to remain alert, pushing down the darkness within him so he can take care of Mr. Graves, anxiously awaiting the day he’s well enough to return to work. 

While the older man rests in his armchair by the fire, Credence slips into the library, the door cracked open behind him so he can hear if Mr. Graves needs him and approaches the piano that has called to him since he first came to live here. 

Fingers trailing through the dust on the silky black wood, he casts a glance back through the open door to Mr. Graves and then carefully wipes it down with his sleeve before taking a cautious seat on the bench. 

The lid lifts easily and he stares down at the keys for a moment before laying his thin fingers on the ivory and black wood. He doesn’t press down, not yet; for now he trails his fingers over the edges, playing song after song in his mind until finally, he settles on one that he’s always loved. 

His fingers move slowly at first, the moodiness of the song fitting his frame of mind here in the dark, dusty recesses of Mr. Graves’s home. 

The first time he had heard  _ Moonlight Sonata _ had been when he was just sixteen and passing by a Catholic Church. Inside, someone played the song with such reverence and emotion he had been drawn into the large gothic structure, struck still by awe, tears rolling down his face as he for the first time in his life, felt the presence of something holy.

Now as he plays, his shoulders sway with the effort and his throat is too tight with those same tears and his chest feels like it is being crushed inwards, like the force of the music will consume him whole, and he’s not so certain that he doesn't actually want that. 

His fingers are a blur, aching with the stretch, tips almost numb as they dance, but he sees none of it, eyes closed as he plays, soul on fire as the rush of emotion within him swells. 

The last strains fade away and he’s still, breathing a little fast, letting the last echoes of the song slip out of his heart, aching with some unnamed emotion as his fingers twitch on the keys. 

“That was astounding.”

He freezes at the soft voice of Mr. Graves, embarrassment and shame running through him—he was playing so loudly he must have woken Mr. Graves, who so badly needs his rest and what a selfish little fool he was to even touch the piano! 

“Would you play more?”

The soft question stills his swirling mind and after a breath he half turns, gaze meeting the onyx one watching him. “A-are you sure? I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” he stammers. 

Mr. Graves smiles softly, “My boy, I would gladly be woken by music as beautiful as that every day of my life. You are truly talented,” he tells Credence, grimacing slightly as he takes a seat in the corner, waving a hand at the fireplace nearby so a rush of flames leap into the hearth. 

Credence ducks his head, cheeks fiery, and turns back to the keys, voice soft as he speaks at them. “I’m nothing special Mr. Graves, but I’m happy to play for you if you enjoy it.”

“I love it Credence. And please, just Percy,” the older man replies, and when Credence dares a glance over his shoulder at the other man, he’s met with an encouraging smile and eyes so soft with affection it puts a hopeful lump in throat and a slip in his heartbeat. 

He nods and turns back to the keys, contemplating what to play, gaze flickering to the windows where an early spring frost glazes the windows, and he knows in a flash of the purple and green of the crocuses what he’s going to play. 

It’s a song traditionally played with a violin accompaniment, but he thinks it’ll sound fine without it too. 

With a deep, slow inhalation, he steadies himself and begins.

* * *

 

**_Then_ **

He avoids the piano after that, telling himself that he doesn’t deserve it if he can’t just do as Mr. Grindelwald asks of him. He’s being indulgent, gluttonous,  _ wanton _ in his wasting of time, and for his sins he spends hours practicing magic, praying on his knees on the cold hard flagstones of his room by the unlit fireplace until he’s so cold he’s numb with it. 

A few days later when he successfully casts his first disarming spell that launches Mr. Grindelwald’s wand out of his hand and earns himself another firm, demanding kiss, he allows himself to go to the conservatory and play. 

It’s darker than before, winter is truly setting in, and as he plays his lament, his heart aches. 

Once more, memory haunts him. 

_ I won’t let her hurt you _

Gentle hands healing his bleeding palms. 

_ I’ll protect you _

The scent of tobacco and bergamot flooding his nose as firm arms hold him. 

_ My boy, my dear Credence  _

A hand, caressing his cheek, the touch gentle and almost loving. 

He doesn’t realize he’s crying as he plays, mourning the man he thought cared for him, the loss of his sister, the utter loneliness quaking within him like aftershocks of a great heaving of the earth. 

The music fades into the dark stone walls, the castle caring not for his grief or his music, simply eating it up and giving nothing back but cold, uncaring silence. 

“My boy.”

Firm hands cover his shoulders and he doesn’t pull away when they guide him up and into an unyielding embrace. A mouth falls upon his cheeks, kissing at the tear tracks, tracing over his skin until lips meet his and he clings to the other man, desperate for something to make him  _ feel _ , to feel  _ anything _ but this echoing loneliness and sorrow inside him. 

He doesn’t protest when he’s taken to a room he’s not seen before; Mr. Grindelwald’s bedchambers. 

_ Anywhere...anywhere but those memories  _

He doesn’t protest when the man lays him down on the bed and presses kisses to his lips and throat. 

_ Anything...anything but this sorrow _

He doesn’t protest when hands larger than his pluck the clothing from his body. 

_ Anyone...anyone but that man, the one who lied and broke his heart _

He doesn’t protest. 

_ Please...help me _


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tons of angst, lots of feels and more than a little music. 
> 
> Songs for this chapter are: “Requiem Mass in D minor” by Mozart, “mercy” by Lewis capaldi, and “moonlight sonata” by Beethoven.

**_Now_ **

Percival sits, stunned into silence as Credence plays; his thin fingers dancing over the keys fluidly. He plays in a way that Percival never learned to, despite his mother and piano instructor’s best efforts. 

This is natural talent; a gift from God, he thinks Credence would say. 

Enraptured, he watches as Credence sways with the music, thin shoulders bent as his body moves with each note, as if the music is playing him, not the other way around. His eyes are shut as he plays, his expression one of painful bliss, as though the beauty of the music is too much, too wonderful to bear. Pink stains his cheeks softly, his exertion warming his skin, the cream flushed high on those lovely sharp bones and the occasional bite to his lower lip has turned it from its usual petal pink into something darker, wetter,  _ intoxicating _ . 

A flush rises on Percy’s cheeks when he realizes how he’s studying the boy, how his trousers are just a touch too tight for polite behavior, but he doesn’t know how to  _ not _ look at Credence and see his beauty. 

Where others would see his thinness and mistake it for fragility, Percy sees his strength in the face of a cruel mother, a tenacious will to live. 

Where one might see his scars and believe him broken, Percy sees his unbowed spirit, daring to live in the face of abuse and neglect. 

He knows Credence thinks himself a burden; he hears it in the way Credence apologizes for eating a second helping, sees it in the way he hesitates before taking the new clothes bought for him, feels it in the way the boy reluctantly slips from his embraces, as though he’s undeserving of all these things. 

Of Percy’s love.

And  _ oh _ , how he loves Credence.

He’d been enchanted by the boy from the moment he laid eyes on him; too thin, strange hair, painfully shy...but  _ achingly  _ beautiful. 

Those eyes, deep and warm and hopeful, watching him from beneath thick dark lashes, tugging at his heart with their wide innocence. 

Knowing that Grindelwald had taken advantage of the boy by using his face...it ignites a fury within him that he doesn’t ever think will go away. 

He’s seen the way Credence watches him, as though he’s waiting for that  _ other  _ Mr. Graves to come back, and he wonders if he’ll ever fully have Credence’s trust. 

Had he never regained at least some of it, he’d still be rotting away in Nurmengard, broken and insane.

* * *

 

**_Then_ **

The blackness is still there, still total and all consuming, but in that darkness, he finds light. 

A pale, angular face with too long lashes and hauntingly beautiful eyes fills his mind. Lips, curled into a hesitant smile warm his heart and breeds hope within the aching cavity of his chest. 

He knows the boy must recall their conversation in the diner from that first time they met; there’s no way Percy could ever forget the experience. 

Time is a useless concept here in the blackness, but when he lays his hands on his face he feels the scruffy beard on his chin and the long strands of greasy hair brushing his cheeks and he knows it must be months that he’s been here. 

He wonders if anyone has noticed that he’s missing, that an imposter has been wearing his face like a mask. 

He’s still here, so they must not know. 

Or they think him dead. 

He’s wished it so, many a time since he’s been under the deranged and cruel care of Grindelwald. 

When he had first been abducted Grindelwald had kept him in his home, locked in a trunk, barely fed, hidden from sight, screams bouncing off the walls of his cage to echo maddeningly in his ears long after he’d fallen silent. 

Upon his transfer to Nurmengard he’d been put in a tower cell in chains that robbed him of his magic, but at least then there’d been a window. 

Light, fresh air, it had given him hope, hope that had been cruelly robbed by his captor when he had stunned him and moved him into this black hole—his refusal to speak anything more than his name and Auror ID enraging the dark wizard. 

The door screeches and he thinks for a minute he’s hallucinating again, imagining someone coming to rescue him, but the light in his eyes burns, too painful to be anything but real. 

A figure stands in the doorway, backlit so he can’t see the face, but the painfully thin figure is clearly that of Credence. 

_ Unless Grindelwald’s stolen his face too _

It’s a cruel thought, but it makes him cautious, even as hope kindles in his heart. 

The figure steps forward and light falls on his angular face in a sharp slash, illuminating angular cheekbones and wide, scared eyes. They search him, and he knows in that moment it’s Credence—there’s no way Grindelwald could ever fake the emotion in the boy’s eyes. 

“What did you promise me in the diner?”

His heart leaps,  _ soars _ , because this, this means that Credence believes, or at least suspects, that he is trustworthy. 

His voice is hoarse from disuse, but he manages anyway. “T-that I would, p-protect you.”

The boy studies him and frowns, “Then why did you lie? Why did you hurt me?” he demands, pain and sorrow shadowing his eyes. 

“I-I didn’t. Grindelwald, he used magic to look like me,” he explains, heart stuttering as the boy stares, unblinking as he contemplates that answer. 

The silence goes on for so long he dares to speak again, hope heady and wild in his blood. “Credence, I’m so sorry I failed you. I’m so sorry I didn’t get to help you get out of the church and away from your mother. All I wanted was to help you, protect you.”

There’s a sound at the end of the hallway and Credence stiffens, half turns to see who it is, wand slipping out of his pocket warily. 

“Credence, what are you doing here alone?”

Grindelwald steps up beside the boy and lays a hand between his shoulder blades, firm and possessive, and rage seethes in Percy’s gut at the sight. 

This man, this  _ monster _ has hurt Credence, and now he pretends like he’s his  _ friend _ . 

“I wanted to see if he repented his sins,” Credence lies and Percy ducks his chin to hide his surprise. “He’s told the most outrageous lies instead,” Credence tells the other man, voice hard. 

“Well, I believe you should guide him into repenting then, don’t you?”

_ Guide him  _

Torture him, more like. 

“I do.”

His gaze lifts at that, watching as Grindelwald nudges Credence forward, remaining behind to watch, a sick, satisfied smile on his face. 

Credence stands a foot away and raises his wand, eyes sorrowful and apologetic. 

“ _ Crucio.” _

You have to mean it, really mean it, when you use an unforgivable curse, and as he screams and writhes, Percy knows, Credence means it. He knows how deeply Grindelwald hurt the boy while wearing his face and the rage that fuels the curse now is fairly earned he thinks. 

If he had been more vigilant none of this would have happened. 

It is his fault they are here, tortured and torturer, damaged by the man gleefully watching his body writhe under Credence’s wand. 

When the blinding agony stops, Credence steps forward and knots his fingers in Percy’s hair, yanking his head back so he can meet his gaze through teary eyes. 

The boy leans in till his lips are at Percy’s ear, his voice so soft it’s barely audible, even to him. 

“Never let the fire in your heart go out.” 

Credence pulls back and meets his gaze, a silent message of hope passing between the two before the younger man is stepping back and turning away. 

“What did you whisper to him Credence?”

A glance cast over a shoulder, eyes too old for such a young face searching him before they’re once again gone. 

“His fate.”

A cruel laugh rings out before the door slams shut, once more locking him in the blackness.

* * *

 

**_Now_ **

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until Credence is across the room and kneeling at his feet, soft noises of despair echoing from his chest as his hands cling to Percy’s thighs, just above his knees. The boy is wide eyed and frantic, nearly whimpering as he tries to soothe him, apologizing over and over again. 

Smiling shakily, he reaches out and cups the boy’s cheek, “I’m fine Credence, I promise. You’ve done nothing wrong, sweet boy. I…” he pauses, debating whether he should tell him what he had been reflecting on. Clearing his throat, he continues. 

“I was recalling Nurmengard...when you came to see me, that last time before we escaped.”

Shame fills Credence’s face, his eyes filling with despair before he ducks his head, voice soft and broken. “I’m sorry Mr. Graves, I’m so so sorry.” He sobs out his apologies, clinging desperately to Percy as if he’s afraid the older man will shove him away, reject him and cast him out. 

It breaks Percy a little, to see his boy brokenhearted like this; the last time he had seen Credence so upset was after his mother had beat him half to death, opening up long gashes on his spine that bled until the boy passed out in his arms. 

He had felt terror unlike any he had ever experienced before that day; apparating straight to his home, closing the wounds with Dittany and making sure the boy drank a blood restoring potion before he fed him and tried to convince him to stay. 

Credence had refused; he had to take care of his little sister Modesty, without him she would catch their mother’s wrath, and she was too small to take the beatings. Not like Credence could. 

Knowing that this boy had stepped in and taken the pain for his sister, it broke his heart and made him love the boy in equal measure. It brings tears to his eyes even now, as he pulls Credence up, into his arms, holding him close as the young man sobs into his waistcoat, hands fisted in the cotton of his bottle green button down shirt. 

The force of Credence’s sobs wrack his body, his words nearly unintelligible, but what Percy manages to understand, breaks his heart. 

_ My fault _

_ Hurt you _

_ Never wanted to _

_ My fault _

_ Stupid...useless... _ **_weak_ **

“Shh...no my boy,  _ no _ ,” he murmurs, voice broken as he chokes on his own emotions, rubbing large circles over his back with gentle hands, “Please Credence, no.” The boy’s tears haven’t slowed, if anything, he’s crying harder as Percy tries to calm him, so he begins to speak, voice low and calm and reassuring. 

“Did you know Credence, that when I was in the war, I dug tunnels beneath German lines. The wizarding community wanted to stay out of the war, but I knew there was too much at risk to sit on the sidelines. When MACUSA got their heads out of their asses, they sent platoons of wizards to help; to spy, to dig, to do whatever we could to ensure our victory.”

“I saw,” he swallows hard, recalling the whistling sound of the mortars just before they landed, “I saw good men die in tunnel cave ins, with bullet holes riddling their bodies, or starving to death in filthy trenches while their comrades froze.” 

Credence’s sobs have slowed, but his breathing is still much too fast. 

“A very good friend of mine, he was sent behind enemy lines to spy. On his way back, an enemy wizard saw him, and cursed him in the back.” 

Green light flashes in his eye and Percy flinches, sweat cold on his brow as he continues, “I would have died, trying to get to his body, but my unit leader placed me under a full body bind until we could send a team out to retrieve it.” 

His voice is thick as he continues, “I was supposed to go with him, you see. I was supposed to be his back up, keep him safe, but I had been…” he curses softly and ducks his chin, burying his nose in Credence’s hair as the scent of blood and decaying flesh fills his nostrils for a long, terrible moment. 

“What was his name Mr. Graves?”

Credence’s voice is soft, muffled against his shirt, but it’s steady, steadier than his had been moments ago. He breathes in slowly a few times, inhaling the scent of soap on the boy’s skin,  _ his  _ soap, and he gets a possessive little rush from that, thinking of other things of his on the boy...his hands maybe, to start. 

Clearing his throat, he answers Credence softly, “Henry Potter.” He smiles softly, “We all called him Harry though.” His hand strokes through Credence’s hair gently as he speaks, eyes distant, “He was British, serving after he came to America in protest of the British wizarding community not participating in the war.” 

“What was he like?” Credence asks softly, curious. 

Percy glances down and finds that the younger man is looking up at him, tears gone, but still clinging to him. Smiling softly he strokes his knuckles across his pink cheek, “He was...very kind,” he muses, “he listened to what everyone had to say, whether they were a regular soldier, an officer, or someone of higher rank socially.”

At Credence’s confused look, he explains, “Potter is a very old, very respected pure blood family in the British wizarding community.” If anything, the boy looks even more confused. Percy chuckles and continues stroking his thumb over the sharp plane of a cheekbone, entirely unaware how long he’s been doing so. 

“Pureblood means that no one in the family has married ever married a muggle--no maj,” he elaborates. 

Credence frowns, “Why does that matter?”

Percy laughs again, delighted by the refreshing point of view Credence brings to the stuffy traditions of the wizarding community. “It doesn’t, it’s just prejudice and nonsense,” he murmurs, gazing fondly down at Credence. 

The boy nods slowly, “So why did you not go with your friend?” he asks, softly, as though he’s afraid he’ll hurt Percy by asking. His gaze is averted, hiding from any potential reproach and Percy’s heart aches at the thought that this sweet boy could ever think he would hurt him. 

“I was in the infirmary…” he sighs deeply, shaking his head slowly, “I was suffering from shell shock and the medi-witches were trying to calm me with potions. They were successful, but I was too high to go out into the field.” His gaze flickers down to Credence’s lips as he speaks, frowning softly at memory, “I’ve often wondered if I had just gone with him, would I have been able to stop it?”

He’s surprised when a thin, scarred hand touches his face, gently, almost hesitantly. His gaze finds Credence’s, steady on him, warm and soft. 

“You couldn’t know what was going to happen. It wasn’t your fault. You can’t blame yourself for what someone else did.”

Percy stares at him for a long moment before his larger hand comes up to capture Credence’s, pressing it into his cheek before he pulls it away and brushes his lips over the scarred knuckles, eliciting a wide eyed gasp from the boy. 

“You can’t blame yourself either Credence.” When the boy tries to speak, he shakes his head firmly, “No, you wanted answers, and a man who knew how to lie and manipulate took advantage of that desire. What he did to me was his choice. Not yours.”

Credence frowns deeply, “But I chose to hurt you,” he murmurs, “I used an unforgivable on you!” 

Percy nods, “You did. But if we hadn’t been found, if Grindelwald hadn’t come, would you have done the same?”

He knows the answer, Credence just needs to realize it for himself. 

The boy has been brainwashed into thinking every action he takes is sinful or wrong, and something like this, it’s likely testing every belief the boy has ever had. 

“I….No, I wouldn’t have” Credence admits, sounding lost, eyes sad when he looks back up at Percy. 

Smiling warmly, he brushes another kiss over the knuckles still in his grasp, “I know. You would never hurt me if you didn’t have to, or have a good reason.” 

“I’d never hurt you! Never again,” Credence promises, gaze earnest, voice cracking as tears fill his eyes once more. “I hate him Mr. Graves, I hate him for what he did to us.”

He should tell him not to hate, but he can’t lie. 

“I do too Credence.”

There’s surprise on the young man’s face and he smiles wryly, “I’m not so altruistic as you think I am,” he jokes dryly. “If I ever get my hands on that man, I’ll  _ gladly _ use the Cruciatus in return.” The venom in his voice is strong, he can see Credence’s eyes widening at his rage, but he needs Credence to understand. “What he did to you, what he  _ took _ , I can never forgive.”

Credence peers at him sorrowfully, shaking his head. “I’m not worth all that Mr. Graves,” he murmurs, “honestly.”

Frustration wells within Percy; how can he make Credence see how much he means to him? His gaze flickers to those pink lips once more, and when he looks back up, Credence is eyeing him warily, hopefully. 

He shifts to cup the angular cheek, thumb brushing over the fine bone slowly. Credence’s breathing is unsteady, just a touch too quick, and when Percy leans in, he can hear the soft gasp issue from between those plush lips, just before his own cover them. 

He goes slow, taking his time to press a few lingering kisses there, giving the boy time to catch up. Credence is slack in his grip for such a long time he’s afraid he’s misread everything between them, starts to pull back, already forming an apology when Credence moves, hands tightening their grasp on his shirt, pulling him back with a near desperate whine. 

Smiling into Credence’s lips, he meets the boys’ eager kisses, one large hand still cradling his face as the other pushes at the small of his back, pulling him closer, till their chests are pressed together and he can feel the younger man’s heart beating a frenetic tattoo. Credence moans into the kiss, whimpering as he shifts, trying to get closer, one of his hands sliding up to twine in Percy’s hair, tugging softly. 

Heat builds in his stomach and as much as he wants to keep going, to push the boy to the floor and spread him out, press kisses to every inch of his body until he’s trembling and crying out his name, he won’t. 

Not tonight anyway. 

Gently, he pulls back and chuckles when Credence tries to chase his lips, a whine in the back of his throat making Percy’s blood heat. Mercy lewis, he wants to hear  _ that _ again and again and again. 

“Shh, Credence, come here,” he murmurs, applying pressure to the boys’ slim hip till he rises and Percy can guide him towards his lap. When the boy resists, he frowns up at him, one hand sliding beneath the hem of the sweater Credence has layered over a button down shirt so he can feel the smooth skin of his hip. 

“I’ll hurt you,” Credence whispers nervously, “You’re still injured.” 

Percy smiles softly, his boy is so thoughtful, so worried about him it nearly breaks his heart. “Credence,” he murmurs, drawing the whiskey gaze up to his so he can smile at him, “You won’t hurt me. I swear.” He gives him a soft, pleading  look, “Will you please come sit with me?”

Apparently that’s enough, because Credence moves smoothly into his lap, legs tucked over the side of the armchair so Percy can wrap his arm around the thin shoulders and pull him closer. It’s true, some of his wounds ache with the added weight of the boy in his lap, but he’s not going to object. 

Ever. 

Pressing his lips to Credence’s hair, he hums, inhaling the lemon, mint and rosemary scent of his shampoo on the silky tresses. 

“You are worth everything to me Credence. I’d endure a thousand years under the cruciatus if it meant I got to spend just one more day with you,” he whispers, voice raw as he bares his soul to the boy. 

There’s a soft hitch in Credence’s breath before he turns his chin and bravely meets Percy’s gaze. 

“I’d take every one of those days in your place if it meant keeping you safe.” 

Percy’s heart melts at the sincerity and solemnity of the words, and before he can think about it, he’s leaning back in for another kiss. 

“Oh sweetheart, my heart, I’ve waited my whole life for you,” he croons, throat thick with emotion as Credence sighs happily and leans into his chest for more warm, languid kisses. 

The boy grows soft in his arms, exhausted but entirely unwilling to move, and when he does finally fall asleep, Percy doesn’t have the heart to rouse him and lose out on watching him. 

Soft and warm and flushed pink, he’s entirely enraptured. 

_ Have mercy, my heart, it’s yours.  _


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ok folks, I only have one more chapter written and it's not finished yet, but I promise I'll finish this story!! Probably like two more chapters before it's wrapped up. Enjoy!!

**_Now_ **

Another week passes before Mr. Graves—Percy, he reminds himself, is allowed to go back to work. The older man is frustrated, but easily soothed by Credence’s requests to learn magic. He’s infinitely patient and kind, showing Credence how to hold his wand, which movements correspond to which spells, and he never,  _ never _ yells when Credence breaks something with an errant spell—which happens far more frequently than Credence is happy with. 

Instead, Percy repairs the broken item with a simple flick of his wand and on one occasion, grins at him as he sweeps the shattered pieces of a particularly ugly vase into the trash. “I’ve hated this thing since I was a child. My great aunt Helena gave it to me for my tenth birthday,” he tells Credence, who is watching him dispose of the pieces nervously, wondering when the older man will scold him, demand his belt,  _ something _ to punish him. 

“Who gives a ten year old a vase for his birthday?” Percy declares with a wry laugh, the sound of it warming Credence deep into his belly. He’s been doing that more, laughing, smiling too, and every time it happens, Credence flushes because he looks so... _ so _ ...everything. 

Handsome

Kind

Carefree

And it makes Credence ache, the need to touch inside him has him tying his fingers in knots because as much as he  _ wants _ he can’t, he can’t be greedy. Somehow though, Percy always seems to know, because he’ll pause in the middle of teaching him a spell, or showing him how to chop something in the kitchen or even as he’s playing the piano, and gently, oh so gently, cup Credence’s face in one hand so he can tilt it and kiss him. 

It’s always slow and sweet and warm, like honey on his tongue, and Credence  _ yearns _ ,  _ aches _ for more. It’s a sweet ache in his bones, never really gone, his belly always hungry for more. 

The darkness in him has lain dormant, and he’s begun to think it’s gone, when, on the first day Percy is back in the office, it stirs. 

It’s only been a few hours, but Credence is already growing anxious. He tries to distract himself with reading spell books and history texts, practicing his wand work and arithmancy, but even the piano isn’t enough to keep his mind from wandering.  

What if Percy doesn’t come back?

What if someone attacks him? 

What if Grindelwald comes for him?

His fingers curl into fists against the ivory of the piano keys, nails biting into his palms as he tries to breathe out these ugly thoughts. Perhaps if he prepares dinner he’ll be distracted enough that it will leave him alone, sink back into the shadows where it hides. 

He takes a whole chicken from the refrigerator, a contraption he had heard about but never seen until he had come to live with Percy. A fresh lemon, herbs, and an onion join the chicken on the counter, and in a bit of daring, he waves a hand towards the record player, grinning when music begins to issue forth. 

His hands are sure and careful as he mixes together butter, herbs and garlic—more spice and flavor than he’s ever seen before he came to live with Percy, but he knows from experience how delicious it is. It had taken his stomach some time to adjust to the new, rich foods, but over time, he’s gained a love for cooking.

When the chicken is prepared he puts it back into the fridge until it’s closer to the time Percy arrives home. Carefully he washes off the cutting board, scrubbing it hard to make sure it’s clean—Percy had explained that raw chicken could carry disease if not prepared properly, and ever since he’s been cautious in his preparation of meals.

It’s as he’s washing the knife he used that it happens. 

His thumb slips and the blade slices deep into the meat of it, the pain sharp and hot and sudden. Credence gasps as blood wells out, coursing down his thumb in crimson rivulets, his gaze riveted to it, watching as it stains his skin. 

The knife slips from his fingers and into the sink with a clang, his stomach churning as he watches more blood ooze out. 

_ Clumsy! Idiot boy! You can’t even do dishes without making a mistake!  _

His Ma—Mary Lou’s voice is loud and so very real he looks around, wide eyed, before remembering, remembering that he killed her. 

_ Murderer! Sinner! Burn in hell, demon! _

Gasping, he stumbles from the kitchen, blood rushing in his ears as he makes his way to his bedroom. He needs...needs to make it stop. Quiet the voice.

His chest heaves with his gasps, vision blurry around the edges as he fishes out the bundle of fabric and then the blade is falling into his palm, slicing into the skin as he closes his fist around it, shoving his pants down with one unsteady hand, breath rasping in his chest as his heart beats too fast. 

Sweat is slick on his face, body too cold and the blood on his hand feels like ice. He uncurls his palm and with bloody fingers, slices into the pale skin of his thigh. The pain is sharp and bright, focusing him for long enough that he can steady his trembling fingers and make another cut next to it. 

His breathing slows and his head falls back against the wall of his room, hands trembling between his spread thighs, watching duly as his blood stains the floor beneath him. His head is too light, it feels like it might just float away from his shoulders, and when he closes his eyes, the darkness greets him eagerly.

* * *

 

**_Then_ **

He’s sore, bruised, and shaking. Mr. Grindelwald is long gone from his bed, a kiss having been pressed to his brow early this morning with a reminder that he’d be gone for a few days.  _ I’ll be back _ he had promised,  _ remember to practice your wand work _ he had admonished before apparating away. 

There had been no declarations of affection, no tender touches or sweet kisses and in a way, it was better that way—Credence knew that Mr. Grindelwald didn’t care for him, and a pretense of anything else would have just made his decision to leave that much harder. 

He wasn’t sure he trusted Mr. Graves, but he knew that the man he had come to know before he had changed,  _ that  _ man hadn’t ever lied to him. Once he’s sure Grindelwald is gone and the castle is empty, he hurries to bathe, washing away the sin of the night before and dresses in a fresh set of clothing before he makes his way cautiously to the dungeons. 

He hesitates outside the door, palm sweaty around the shaft of his borrowed wand. He wants to know who his family is, was, but he’s come to realize that Mr. Grindelwald only promised those things to keep him around, his power too strong a lure for the older man to let him go. 

Pulling the door open, he cautiously whispers a Lumos and steps forward, watching as the light falls on the pale crumpled figure within the dark. It stirs, and after a moment, sits up and guards its face against the light. 

“Credence?”

The voice is hoarse, weak, but it is still Mr. Graves. 

Nodding, he steps forward, “Yes sir,” he murmurs, kneeling beside the man to inspect his chains. Grindelwald had told him they were enchanted to dampen magical abilities and were impervious to any opening spell, so he’s not sure how he’s going to free Mr. Graves. 

A thought occurs to him and he carefully sets aside the wand, reaching out to wrap the chain in his fingers, closing his eyes as he pictures what he wants and then wills his magic to do as it is bid. Heat unfurls in his chest, throbbing and pushing at his ribs and he gasps at the sensation; it’s so different than when he uses the wand. 

At a soft exclamation of surprise he opens his eyes and watches in amazement as the chains crumble to ash before his eyes. 

“Brilliant,” Mr. Graves breaths, and when Credence looks up at him, he’s gazing not at the chains, but at  _ him _ . The look in his eyes makes Credence shiver; he’s looking at him like he’s the most incredible thing he’s ever seen and Credence doesn’t think that can possibly be true, because this man has lived with magic his whole life—Credence is no one, nothing special about him, not like Mr. Graves. 

He doesn’t linger on that train of thought though, because fear is still coursing through him; if Grindelwald had a spell on the chains that alerts him to an escape or their destruction, he’s very likely on his way back now. 

Credence slings Mr. Graves’s arm over his shoulder and hauls him to his bare and broken feet, taking as much of his weight as he can to avoid hurting him as they shuffle down the hallways. He’s left his wand behind—it never worked properly anyway—and he doesn’t want any reminder of Grindelwald, he just wants to be  _ free _ . 

They stumble out of the castle and into the frigid morning air, breath puffing as Credence guides Mr. Graves away from the castle. Grindelwald had told him of the wards around the castle preventing anyone but him from apparating in or out, but had told Credence that if he ever wanted to leave, he could simply walk away. 

It was a promise that Credence hoped Grindelwald hadn’t lied about, because if he had, they would never make it away. He must have been telling the truth, because there’s a moment where Credence feels something like resistance, and then static electricity courses over his skin and they’re stumbling out into the forest that surrounds the castle. 

Mr. Graves is flagging though, so he slows and leans the man against the trees, letting him catch his breath as Credence peers around, trying to figure out where they are, where they need to go, anything that will help him get them away and to safety. 

“Do you know how to apparate?”

The question is soft, and when he glances back to Mr. Graves, worry fills him at how pale the older man is. He’s so weak, malnourished and broken Credence fears that by trying to escape, he’s killed the older man. 

Shaking his head, he ducks his chin, “I’m not very good with my magic,” he admits softly. 

“That’s ok, I’m sure he wasn’t the best teacher.”

Credence lifts his gaze to meet Mr. Graves’s and he’s surprised to see the teasing light in his onyx gaze, so surprised that it elicits an unexpected smile and a short laugh. “He wasn’t” he murmurs in agreement. 

“We can still do it,” Mr. Graves whispers, shuddering as a particularly strong breeze cuts through the rags clinging to his frame. Credence hurries over, tugging off his coat and draping it around the thin shoulders that he remembers being so strong and broad; it pains him to see Mr. Graves so weakened. 

“How?”

“Do you remember the Woolworth building?”

Credence nods—he handed out pamphlets there more than a few times and remembers it’s the first place he ever saw Mr. Graves. 

“Good, picture it in your mind, as vividly as you can.” 

Credence closes his eyes and draws up the image of the building, large and imposing, all brick and glass. He can almost feel the way the sun creeps over its edges, warming the sidewalk below.

“Now, take my arm,” Mr. Graves instructs and Credence reaches out, hand slipping around the thin elbow, “Hold tight,” he’s instructed quietly and his fingers tighten reflexively. 

“Now you need to  _ will _ us there, okay Credence? Picture the steps of the building and use your magic to will us onto them.”

Credence nods and takes a deep breath before he pictures those stairs, the ones where Mr. Graves had stood, watching him. The magic in him responds to his will, bursting forth in a blaze of light and heat and then suddenly the air is being compressed in his lungs and there’s a tugging sensation in his stomach that’s so strong it feels like he’s going to be sick. 

As abruptly as it began, it ends just as harshly. 

Credence heaves, on his hands and knees, dizzy and moaning in pain. Beside him, he can see the fuzzy outline of Mr. Graves’s body, still and silent. Fear pierces his heart and he lurches over, hovering over him as passersby exclaim loudly at the sudden appearance of the two men. 

He can’t feel Mr. Graves’s heart, it’s, it’s... _ it’s not beating.  _

Tears burning in his eyes, he lays a hand to his chest and  _ wills _ it to beat, demanding that this man who he is so very confused over,  _ live _ . 

Magic burns in his veins and he’s lightheaded, but he refuses to let Mr. Graves die, not when they’ve fought this hard to escape. He can hear people shouting, orders being given and hands tug at him, trying to pull him away, but he knocks them back with a pulse of magic—he has to save Mr. Graves, that is the  _ only  _ thing that matters. 

He wills his magic to work, over and over again, growing weaker with each burst of magic, but he can’t quit—Mr. Graves never gave up on him, so he won’t either. 

With a great cry of exertion, he sends one last pulse of magic into Mr. Graves’s body, willing it to bring him back, heal him, save him. Collapsing forward against the man’s chest, the last thing he consciously realizes is the heart beating beneath his cheek.

* * *

 

**_Now_ **

“Credence? Please, Credence, open your eyes, yes, there, you go sweetheart, that’s it.”

Percy’s face is very close to his—it’s the first thing he notices, the cold the second, and the pain the third. 

“Percy?” he mumbles, voice hoarse, and he wonders just how long it is that he’s been...what? Asleep? 

“Yes, that’s right Credence, it’s me,” Percy murmurs, hands cupping his cheeks as he peers down at Credence, worry lines furrowing his brow and turning the corners of his lips down. “What...no, that can wait a moment,” he decides, “can you stand?” he asks instead.

Credence isn’t sure; his whole body is stiff and achy, but he tries anyway, crumpling back down with a whine of pain as his legs give out, dried blood crackling on his skin. 

“Okay, okay, hold on darling,” Percy croons, arms wrapping around him gently before he’s being lifted up and carried out of his room and into Percy’s. Credence doesn’t have the energy to object, he’s far too tired, so he leans his head against Percy’s shoulder, eyes falling half shut. 

The mattress is soft beneath his back, the scent of Percy strong on the sheets, warm and comforting. He can’t really find the strength to open his eyes, but can feel Percy’s hands all over his body, stripping away his clothes till he’s shivering at the touch of chill air against his skin. 

He hears a sharp inhalation and then the hands are touching his thighs, gentle and light. He feels the skin stitching back together, just like when Percy had healed his hands and back. Warmth fills his skin and he feels consciousness slip away from him slowly. 

When he wakes next, he’s tucked securely in a bed with more blankets and pillows than he’s ever seen in his life, warm and comfortable. That comfort disappears when he sits up a little and sees Percy sitting in a chair by the bed, half a day’s beard growth on his jaw and dark circles under his eyes. 

His eyes are dark, haunted, when they meet Credence’s and something uneasy slips into his belly at the look there. Twisting his hands together in his lap, Credence ducks his chin and avoids Percy’s peircing gaze. 

“How are you feeling?”

The question surprises him; he expected to be reprimanded for harming himself, but that’s not happening, not yet anyway. 

“Fine,” he whispers, voice hoarse and low with shame. 

“Can you tell me why you hurt yourself Credence?”

He shakes his head immediately, he can’t tell Percy, he can never explain how the darkness inside him has always been there, how it’s poisoned him since the beginning. His mother was right when she called him a demon—he was born with evil inside him, and that’s never going to change. 

“Credence,” Percy’s voice is demanding, a hard edge cutting into him and he flinches because he’s disappointed the older man, he can hear it, in that deep, normally reassuring voice, and his stomach swoops, a sick feeling tying his guts in knots. 

“I-I...I can’t,” Credence breathes, whimpering as his fingers knot in the material of the comforter. 

“Why not?”

That’s an easier question, he can answer that. 

“B-because, I-I’m  _ wrong _ Mr. Graves, I-I’m filled with darkness and sin. I can’t... _ contaminate _ you,” he gasps, tears welling in his eyes. He dares a glance up at Percy and crumples in shame at the confusion and hurt on the older man’s face. 

“Credence,” he sighs, shaking his head gently, compassion so bright in his eyes it makes Credence lean forward; he aches for that kindness, that sweet way that Percy holds him and reassures him everything will be ok...but he can’t. 

Curling in on himself, Credence ducks his head as Percy continues speaking. 

“Credence, you couldn’t contaminate me because there’s nothing wrong with you. Is this…” he hesitates, “is this because of me kissing you?” he asks softly, as though he’s afraid to know. 

“No!”

Credence looks up wildly, shaking his head vehemently, “No, never that,” he replies urgently. “I-I...I have something inside me that’s  _ wrong _ , it makes me think  _ terrible _ things, things I  _ know  _ are wrong.”

Percy frowns deeply and leans forward, elbows on his knees as he studies Credence, “I thought the obscurus was gone?” he asks curiously, worry wrinkling the skin near his eyes. 

“It is…this darkness is different. It...I can’t tell if it’s lying or if, if it will ever go away, but when I do  _ this _ ,” he gestures to his lap and he knows Percy understands what he’s implying, “it...goes quiet,” he tells him. 

Percy nods slowly, lips pressed together in a thin line as he ponders what Credence has told him. Credence can’t tell what he’s thinking, his face has gone carefully blank, and it makes Credence  _ very _ nervous. 

“I...I told you about Harry, and the shell shock.” 

Credence hums softly and nods, but remains silent until Percy resumes. 

“It wasn’t so bad during the war, while we were there. I had been digging tunnels the day before Harry was killed, and we could hear the Germans just a few feet away, their axes whispering in the dirt, so quiet, but in those tunnels it was the only thing you could hear,” he shakes his head, a haunted look darkening his eyes, shadows in the room making his face look gaunt, skeletal. 

The thought makes Credence shudder, recalling how Percy had looked when he had rescued him from Nurmengard. 

“At night, sometimes, I can hear those shovels, scraping the walls of my bedroom, so quiet, but, it...I can’t escape it,” he murmurs, voice hoarse as he continues. “I ward my room so you can’t hear it, but most nights I wake up screaming Credence, shaking, cold with sweat, and then too scared to go back to sleep for fear I’ll see my friends’ dead faces.”

Credence wipes hastily at his eyes, grief for Percy making his throat too thick. He had no idea… _ no _ idea that Percy had been suffering like that. Ducking his chin, he tries to compose himself, heart aching with each beat inside his chest. 

“I-I can’t be in the dark either,” Percy murmurs, “After Nurmengard, it’s just...I can  _ hear  _ him, laughing in the dark, taunting me.” His voice breaks, “He tortured me for days on end, until my bones broke and I thought I would go insane, and then he would heal me so he could do it all over again.” 

There’s a choked noise and Credence looks up sharply at Percy and his weak grasp on his composure breaks when he sees that the older man has his head in his hands, his strong shoulders shaking as strangled sobs wrack his body. 

A low pained cry dies in his throat as he stumbles from bed to land at Percy’s feet, his shaking hands coming up to grasp Percy’s face, tugging until the older man lifts his head and Credence can see the red rimming his eyes, the tears streaking down his face, the grief and exhaustion making his normally handsome face haggard. 

Tears well in Credence’s eyes and he leans up to press his forehead into Percy’s, tiny hitching breaths making his chest hurt, but it doesn’t matter because he has to help Percy, he has to help him  _ somehow _ . 

“I’m so sorry Percy, please, tell me what you need, please,  _ please _ .”

Percy half sobs and his hands are on Credence, pulling him up so he can bury his face in Credence’s neck, his tears hot on his neck as he weeps. Credence holds Percy as tightly as he can, tears of his own falling, and he thinks perhaps he’s breaking, that he’ll just shatter into a million pieces, here, holding the man he loves in his arms as he sobs. 

Eventually Percy’s tears slow and then stop, his breath evening against Credence’s neck. When he pulls back he gives Credence a faint, watery smile but his hand is gentle when it cups the back of Credence’s neck and the soft look in his eyes does more to reassure Credence than anything else. 

“Will you hold me?”

Percy looks surprised by the question but nods, sliding back in the seat so Credence has room to climb into his lap and wrap his arms around Percy’s shoulders. He’s aware of how provocative the position is, especially given the fact that he’s not wearing anything other than his undergarments, but this isn’t about  _ that _ . 

Percy’s hands are soft and warm when they land on his hips, thumbs making soft soothing circles on his hip bones as he stares up into Credence’s eyes. Credence slides his fingers through Percy’s hair, smiling softly as he musses the normally coiffed strands, then carefully brushing them back from where they land in Percy’s eyes. 

He glances around the room at the shadows and lifts his hand, picturing what it is he wants from his magic and a moment later when tiny fairy lights appear, dancing around the room like glow bugs, a grin stretches his face. 

He turns his gaze back to Percy and finds the man is staring at him with something akin to awe in his eyes and Credence flushes, ducking his chin for a moment before he lifts it again, “I don’t want you to be scared Percy. I’ll make lights for you every night if you want,” he offers softly, fingers tracing over the stubble on his chin gently. 

“I’ll play you music so you can’t hear the axes and I’ll remind you every day that you’re  _ here _ with me, not there, with  _ him _ .”

He studies Percy, noting the flecks of amber in his onyx eyes as he runs his thumb under them, wiping away the last of the dampness from his tears. 

“I’ll never let anyone hurt you,” he promises softly.

Percy inhales raggedly, eyes falling shut as he shakes his head, and Credence can see his lashes grow wet as more tears leak out, his chest rising and falling against Credence’s unsteadily.

“How are you real?” he whispers raggedly, “how do you exist? What did I ever do to deserve an angel like you?”

Credence smiles and leans in to press his lips to Percy’s, surprising a gasp out of the man, his eyes fluttering open to stare at Credence for a moment before he sinks into it, hands sliding up his scarred back to pull him closer. Credence can feel the older man’s chest flutter, and then more tears against his cheek before he pulls back and finds Percy smiling, eyes still closed. 

“You saved me Percy,” Credence whispers, running his fingers through Percy’s hair, the gesture soothing and loving, because, well, he  _ does  _ love this man. “Let me return the favor.”

Percy’s eyes open and he gazes up at Credence with such adoration it makes him flush, but he doesn’t look away, not this time. 

“Okay.”


End file.
